


Someone I Love

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief mention of torture (in the past), Brief mentions of suicidal ideation (in the past), But then a really angsty and totally optional epilogue, Canon Compliant, Dog Tags, Jealous John, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, More angst, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 03, Then some fluff and a hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John is gone... Thankfully, Sherlock has managed to hold on to a tiny piece of John for times like this when the sentiment overwhelms him. He throws an arm over the side of the bed, opens the drawer of the nightstand, and digs blindly around in the back until he feels the soft, velvety fabric of the small bag hidden there. He upends the bag over his other hand, and the contents slide out, cool and smooth against his palm.  The moonlight beaming through the bedroom window washes the thin ball chain and the small metal disks in faint, pale light.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>John gets married and Sherlock finds comfort in wearing John's identity tags around his wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Someone I Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inevitably_johnlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitably_johnlocked/gifts).



> As part of a giveaway, inevitably_johnlocked supplied the basic foundation of this story and a checklist of things she wanted to read in it. i_j, I got in as many of them as I could, and I hope you enjoy the result.
> 
>  
> 
> A big thanks to my betas [cakepopsforeveryone](http://cakepopsforeveryone.tumblr.com) and [williamanyscottholmes](http://williamanyascottholmes.tumblr.com).

Sherlock swings open the door to the dark and empty flat. The silence that greets him would have once been comforting, but now it only reminds him of what he’s missing. He drags his leaden feet toward his bedroom, wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep until the pain in his chest subsides into an ache dull enough to ignore. He flops heavily onto the bed without even bothering to remove his coat or his shoes and drags himself up the mattress until his head finds a pillow.

John is gone. He’s well and truly gone this time, and he isn’t coming back. He went and got married, and Sherlock just let him, encouraged him even, because that’s what you do when you love someone--you do whatever you can to make them happy, especially when you have for so long been the cause of their unhappiness. Right now, John is probably dancing with his bride, enjoying the company of friends and family, and allowing himself to experience the kind of joy he never felt with Sherlock. And Sherlock can’t help but feel jealous at that. He pulls his knees toward his chest, curling himself into a tight ball, tensing as many muscles as he can in an effort to hold in the tears threatening to spill. John isn’t his, never will be. Tomorrow he will get on a plane with his wife, flying off to a honeymoon full of sandy beaches, golden sunshine, and stolen moments in each other’s arms. Flying off into a future where a wife and a son or a daughter--a family--become more and more important, and Sherlock becomes less and less so, perhaps eventually fading out of John’s life all together. John doesn’t need him now. Not anymore. But that doesn’t mean Sherlock doesn’t still need John.

Thankfully, he has managed to hold on to a tiny piece of John for times like this when the sentiment overwhelms him. He throws an arm over the side of the bed, opens the drawer of the nightstand, and digs blindly around in the back until he feels the soft, velvety fabric of the small bag hidden there. He upends the bag over his other hand, and the contents slide out, cool and smooth against his palm. The moonlight beaming through the bedroom window washes the thin ball chain and the small metal disks in faint, pale light. It’s not enough to read the engraving, but Sherlock doesn’t need to read it to know what it says. He sweeps the very tip of his index finger back and forth across the barely-raised edges of the letters and numbers stamped there.

O NEG  
25190891  
WATSON  
JH  
RC

These two small tags once pressed against skin made golden by the hot Afghan sun. This small chain once embraced John’s neck, sliding back and forth like a lover’s caress as he popped off rounds to defend himself from enemy fire or worked to staunch the spill of blood from fresh wounds. It has been far closer to John Watson than Sherlock has ever been allowed, so he loops the chain loosely around his wrist and squeezes the tags tightly in his hand as if he could somehow absorb their memories through his own skin. He knows, however--he really does--that no matter how hard he concentrates, the feeling of John’s body beneath his hands won’t manifest through osmosis. There’s no way for him to know how smooth the skin is on John’s neck. How fine the hair is where it trails down his abdomen. How firm the muscles are in his back, his arms, his thighs. There’s no way to know because Sherlock isn’t allowed to touch and never will be.

So instead he clings to the one bit of John he is allowed. He tucks his hand against his chest, clutching John’s identity tags in a vice grip, and lets himself drift to sleep, hoping to dream of sunlight and sandy hair, silver chains and sharp commands.

Instead there are screams in the darkness and hands yanking harshly on unkempt curls, inescapable bonds and the sharp crack of a lash as it breaks open tender skin.

 

\------------------------------

 

John braces his hands lightly against Sherlock’s back as they climb the stairs to 221B, not pushing but supporting in case Sherlock were to fall.

“I am perfectly capable of climbing the ssstairs, John,” Sherlock slurs.

“Of course you are,” John indulges him. They make it to the top without incident, thankfully, and when Sherlock stutters to a stop on the landing, swaying precariously, John carefully maneuvers him through the open door and toward the sofa. As Sherlock begins to collapse back into the worn cushions, John scrabbles to catch hold of one of his long, bony arms. “Oh, no you don’t. Not yet.” He pulls Sherlock back to standing, ensuring that he’s steady on his feet before letting go. “Coat off first. And shoes. Then you can lie down.”

John bends down to untie Sherlock’s shoelaces, certain that Sherlock would fall over if he tried to do it himself in his half-drugged state. When John stands again, Sherlock has only succeeded in tangling himself in his coat, trapping his arms in the sleeves at odd angles as he haphazardly pulls against the binding fabric. John has to laugh, though the rumble feels strange in his throat. It’s the first time he’s felt like himself, felt anywhere near happy, in well over a week.

The anger is still roiling beneath the surface though. How could his wife have married him under an assumed name, an entirely false identity? How could he have married an assassin and not even realized it? How could she have not only shot his best friend--nearly killed him actually--but also failed to show _any_ remorse about it, even though she _knew_ how hard it was for John to have lost Sherlock the first time?

How is someone even supposed to begin to process a betrayal like that? Sometimes John feels like he’s stuck in a television show, that his life is a series of plot twists, carefully planned for maximum shock value. But it isn’t. This is actually his life, and no matter how much he would like to hope that someone has taken the wheel and is slowly steering him toward a happy ending, the reality is that he’s made his own choices, which have led him down this path. He chose to go into the army, which led him back to London, shot and broken and making the choice every day of whether or not to go on. He chose to move in with the strange, beautiful man he’d just met, which led him down dark alleys and underground tunnels, exhilarated and free and alive. He chose to listen to Sherlock that day at Bart’s, to stay put and keep his eyes on the figure on the roof, which led him far away from the one place that had felt like home, depressed and utterly destroyed and slowly drinking himself to death. He chose to say yes the third time Mary asked him out for coffee, which led him to a new life, laughing and moving on and able to breathe again. He chose to marry her, even after Sherlock came home, which ultimately led him, well, _here_ \--back to Baker Street to keep an eye on Sherlock as he recovers--tired and angry and unsure of what to do next.

“Jooooohn,” Sherlock whines, and John snaps out of his swirling thoughts and takes pity on Sherlock.

“Alright, alright. Hold still. Don’t want you to pull on your stitches.” He gently frees Sherlock’s left arm from its sleeve and moves cautiously in the limited space between the coffee table and sofa to work on the other side, sliding the Belstaff down his right arm and tossing it over the back of the desk chair. “Shoes,” John reminds him before he can attempt to fall into the sofa again. Sherlock lists dangerously to the side as he tries to toe off his oxfords, so John reaches out a steadying hand, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s forearm to prevent him from tumbling right over. When Sherlock finally manages to slide his feet free of his shoes, John gingerly lowers him to the sofa, careful not to allow any tension on the partially-healed wound in his chest. He lets Sherlock’s arm slide from his grip, and as his fingers slip past Sherlock’s wrist, John feels something small but solid beneath the fabric of his cuff and hears the faint clink of metal on metal.

Sherlock’s eyes are already closing, his body relaxing and shaping to the sofa cushions, when John asks, “Sherlock, are you wearing a bracelet?”

“Mmm… hmmm…” Sherlock affirms sleepily.

John narrows his eyes at the figure huddled on the sofa. “When did you start wearing jewelry?” he asks incredulously. “I’ve never seen you wear any before, besides a watch.”

“Month… ortwo a...go,” Sherlock mumbles in reply, scrunching further into the soft cushions.

John’s curiosity has gotten the better of him. “But… why? Where did it come from?”

Silence. Seconds upon seconds tick by without a sound, and he decides Sherlock has fallen asleep. He pulls the blanket off his chair--is it really his chair anymore?--and tucks it carefully around Sherlock’s limp form. Curiosity still sparking in John’s mind, he’s tempted to pull back Sherlock’s cuff to see his newly acquired accessory, but as his fingers stretch toward the tightly-buttoned black fabric, Sherlock shifts in his sleep, pulling his hands in and clutching them tightly to his chest as if trying to hold on to something. Instead, John pats Sherlock lightly on the shoulder and steps away from the sofa.

Though the flat is wholly silent as John heads for the kitchen, intent on making tea, he still barely hears Sherlock’s voice from behind him, muffled where his face is smashed into the sofa. The words crash into John so hard that he finds himself knocked down, sprawled in a chair at the kitchen table, shocked and confused, Sherlock’s voice echoing over and over in his mind.

_It’s from someone I love._

 

\------------------------------

 

Having John back at Baker Street is all Sherlock has wanted every moment since he’s returned from being dead. But he hadn’t wanted John’s return to be like this.

He had convinced himself when he was dead that he would come home to find John still here waiting for him, so thankful to have him back that they would collapse into each other’s arms and admit all the things they’d never said. Instead he’d come home to an empty flat, John’s fists, and so many of his wounds torn open again--and not just the ones on his back.

He had hoped that before the wedding John would change his mind and come home, ready to return to his place in Sherlock’s life and willing to accept Sherlock’s place in his. Instead, John returned nearly every night to the home he shared with Mary, and Sherlock forced himself to accept her for John’s sake, no matter how much it broke his heart to see John smile sweetly at her or laugh at some private joke they shared or touch her with the kind of casual intimacy Sherlock remembered they had once _almost_ had.

He had thought that if John ever did somehow return home to Baker Street, it would be the best day of Sherlock’s life. But circumstances have dictated that John is here now, though not for any of the reasons Sherlock had ever dared to dream, and these are far from the best days either of them has ever had. John’s here to play doctor to Sherlock, to deal with his anger at his wife, to feel in control of his life again. He’s not here to rebuild their life together, to recapture everything they once were and--Sherlock allows himself to selfishly hope--still could be. He’s not here to love Sherlock, at least not in the way Sherlock wants him to.

And still, Sherlock drinks in John’s presence in his daily life. His every careful touch sings in Sherlock’s veins. His voice echoes through the halls of Sherlock’s mind palace, no longer stifled by silence, but full of quiet companionship and concerned admonishments and unexpected laughter. His scent lingers on every porous surface of 221B, as if the flat were trying to hold on to him, too, and Sherlock has to resist the urge to curl up with every pillow and blanket and article of clothing that smells of John.

He feels greedy and selfish and hates that he wants so badly for this to continue, when he knows that John needs to go back home to his wife, that he can’t stay here with Sherlock indefinitely because that isn’t what’s best for either of them. John has to go back to Mary in order to protect all of them, and someday soon Sherlock is going to have to convince him of that. But not yet. For now he’ll cherish every moment he’s managed to steal away from Mary, every single second that John is almost his rather than definitely hers.

During the day he has to resist the urge to touch, to splay his palm across John’s back when they take short trips down to the shop on the corner, to slide his hand up John’s thigh when they watch late night telly together on the sofa, to run his fingertips through that silver and sand hair when John changes the bandage on his chest and checks on his stitches, to tip his chin up until their eyes meet and their lips follow.

But at night… At night, he gives in to the urge and touches himself, unable to resist the need for contact, for release, listening to the identity tags clink lightly against his wrist with each stroke, swallowing John’s name back down when it threatens to spill from his throat.

 

\------------------------------

 

_It’s from someone I love._

It’s been nearly a month since Sherlock said those words, and they’re still rattling around inside John’s head as he tries to make sense of them, bouncing off his every action, interaction, and thought.

Someone Sherlock loves.

It’s baffling.

Not because John thinks Sherlock incapable of love. There was a point, yes, where he thought Sherlock disdained the emotion so much that he had entirely shut it out of his life, willingly and intentionally, but he’d come to realize that that wasn’t quite true either. Sherlock clearly cares deeply for Mrs. Hudson, so much so that Moriarty had included her as a potential target for a sniper’s bullet. His regard for Greg is evident enough for Moriarty to have included him, as well. And John knows that Sherlock cares about him, too--Sherlock’s best man speech had made that abundantly clear, though John had known long before then that he meant _something_ to Sherlock, though he’s never been able to pin down exactly what that something is. Before Sherlock left, John had felt that they were close to something, dancing around it, both afraid to be the one to take the step that would bring them together, but then Sherlock left and they have never quite made it back to that place.

Which is good.

Because John’s married.

So he shouldn’t be thinking about what could have been (could still be?) with Sherlock at all.

Because he has a wife.

A pregnant, lying wife who shot Sherlock in cold blood and nearly took him away from John again.

John rolls his head on his neck to release some of the tension building there as he’s reminded of the fucked-up situation he’s found himself in. He takes a deep breath, exhaling with practiced slowness through his nose, willing the rage to ebb away, so that he can refocus on the thought that’s been puzzling him.

Someone Sherlock loves.

There’s honestly not a very long list of people it could be. Aside from Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and John himself, the only people he can think of that Sherlock might consider himself as loving in any way, though he’d never say it out loud--at least not when he wasn’t drugged or very, very drunk--are his brother and his parents. And each person on the list seems as unlikely as the next to have given Sherlock a bracelet. _Maybe_ Mrs. Hudson, but even that seems odd to John, even stranger when he considers that Sherlock is actually _wearing_ it, as Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have tastes that run anywhere near Sherlock’s. Still, the only person he can cross off with any certainty is himself. He’d surely remember if he had ever given Sherlock a bracelet.

It’s a puzzle that has begun to consume him with its unsolvability. He caught himself lying awake in bed thinking about it well after midnight last Thursday. He thinks about it in quiet moments at work. He thinks about it when they watch late night telly. His curiosity is taking over his life, and it needs to stop.

John turns off the shower, long gone cold, and slides back the curtain to reach for a towel. Once his skin has been patted dry and his dressing gown tied tightly around his waist, he heads for the kitchen and flips on the kettle. As he falls into the familiar rhythm of making tea, he listens to the comforting sound of Sherlock tapping away on his laptop in the sitting room. His thoughts begin to drift, and he wills himself to concentrate on anything other than Sherlock’s hidden accessory, but every other thought is derailed by one simple question: _who?_

Right. This has to stop. And if he can’t stop thinking about it, there’s only one thing for it. He’ll ask Sherlock. Just come right out and say it. There’s no reason Sherlock wouldn’t tell him, right?

Abandoning his tea on the counter, he steels himself and paces into the sitting room, eyeing Sherlock where he’s curled up on the sofa. “Sherlock,” he begins before he can lose his nerve.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asks distractedly, still intently focused on the laptop screen, typing away.

Panic flares in John’s chest. Nope. Can’t do it after all. “Nevermind.” He pivots sharply and marches back toward the kitchen.

“Out with it, John.” He turns back to find Sherlock watching him intently, eyes narrowed. “You’ve been… distracted for the last few weeks. There’s something bothering you, something you can’t figure out. Just ask.”

“It’s not bothering… I’m not... “ John huffs out an irritated breath and purses his lips. Sherlock continues to watch him, waiting for him to find the nerve to ask the question. Finally, John forces out, “Who actually gave you the bracelet?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise and a trace of… fear maybe? But he shuts it back down, manipulating his face back into a placid mask so quickly John can’t be sure. “Bracelet. What bracelet?” Sherlock asks nonchalantly.

The denial rankles John. They discussed this--albeit briefly--once before. How can Sherlock bother to deny something they’ve already talked about?

_Oh_. Half-drugged. Nearly asleep. Sherlock doesn’t remember their previous conversation. That explains the surprise that had bloomed so briefly on his face.

“The one on your right wrist,” John explains. Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but John raises a hand to cut him off. “ _Don’t_ deny it. We both know you’re wearing it. I want to know who it’s from.”

Sherlock’s forehead crinkles. “Why?” he asks, seeming genuinely confused by the conversation. “What does it matter?”

That’s a damn good question. Why _does_ it matter? There’s no reason why it should matter, but that hasn’t stopped John from dwelling on it so far. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s… I don’t know.” Cowed by his own admission, he tells Sherlock, “Just, just forget I asked, okay?” before turning around again and stalking back toward the kitchen.

Just as he reaches the doorway, Sherlock answers him anyway. “Janine,” he says plainly, and John’s fists clench, his short fingernails digging half-moons into his palms. Janine? _Someone Sherlock loves_. Is _Janine_. A white hot spark of anger--no, _jealousy_ , John can admit to himself that it’s jealousy--slides along his spine. He snaps around to face Sherlock only to find that he’s gone back to his laptop already, oblivious or unconcerned, as if the revelation wasn’t tearing John in two.

Janine. Sherlock loves _Janine_. The woman who practically moved into the flat as soon as John got married. The woman who joined Sherlock in the bath while John was in the next room. The woman who, in this very room, sat on Sherlock’s lap, discussed double-dates, kissed him goodbye. The woman who sold Sherlock out to the papers with some ridiculous stories about their sex life. And Sherlock _loves_ her? John’s chest is on fire, and he can’t suck enough air into his lungs to cool it down. Maybe the proposal wasn’t entirely fake after all, he thinks, and it takes everything in him to keep his fist at his side instead of slamming it into the nearest wall. “Right,” he says tightly.

Sherlock looks at him then, really looks, but John doesn’t want those pale, observant eyes on him anymore, not now. He doesn’t need Sherlock to see this, to see _him_ , inexplicably jealous and angry and a bit hurt. So John does what he always does. He flees, stomping up the steps to his room, locking himself away with only his thoughts for company.

 

\------------------------------

 

“Do I really have to do this?” John asks with a heavy sigh.

Sherlock finishes pouring them each another scotch, presses a glass into John’s hand, and collapses back into his own chair, balancing on that edge between comfortably relaxed and mildly buzzed. He stares at John for a long moment, watches the unhappiness and uncertainty play out across his face--does he know how easy he is to read when he’s been drinking? Sherlock brings his glass to his lips and swallows down an encouraging sip, letting the warm burn from the liquor overtake the dull ache of regret.

_No, please stay_ , he wants to say. _I wish you didn’t have to_ , is nearly on his lips. But when he finally replies, it’s “You know you do,” and John sighs again and swallows down all of his scotch in one large gulp. Sherlock watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and tries not to think about how it would feel under his lips.

“I don’t…” John starts, and Sherlock can’t let him finish.

“I know,” he cuts in. He knows John doesn’t want to go back, but he can’t be allowed to give voice to it because Sherlock isn’t sure he has the strength to convince John otherwise, not when all he wants is for John to stay. These last few months with John back at Baker Street, back where he belongs, back _home_ , have been the happiest Sherlock has been since he returned. It isn’t exactly like it was before Moriarty’s game broke them apart--there have been far fewer cases, mostly ones Sherlock could solve from home as he recovered, and far more nights spent watching telly or reading or simply enjoying each other’s company, but Sherlock has found the domesticity of it all more pleasurable than he had anticipated. Before, he would have likely been bored by the end of the first week, but now he finds that he rarely considers quiet nights in with John boring at all.

He wishes desperately that it didn’t have to end, but he knows that it’s ultimately the right decision. John has to go back to Mary. He has to forgive her and return to his role as doting husband. Mary’s patience is wearing thin, and if John doesn’t reconcile with her soon, the results could be disastrous for them all. Sherlock already nearly died once--did die actually, though John can never know that--at Mary’s hand. He knows that he would be pressing his luck if he had to try surviving that again. Worse, she could come after John this time instead. Therefore, they have to stick to the plan, if you can call it that.

Much to Sherlock’s dismay, Mycroft had been unable to find much of anything about Mary’s true identity; she had covered her tracks very well. And the flash drive, of course, had been empty. Without data, it had been difficult to form a solid plan of attack. John’s return will give them the upper hand for now, while they come up with a better strategy based on whatever information they manage to retrieve from Magnussen tomorrow.

Sherlock pushes away the thoughts of what has to be done. He wants to focus on this, his last night here with John, just the two of them. Like it used to be. Like it always should be.

John’s lost in his own thoughts, but when Sherlock downs the rest of his scotch, the movement seems to draw him back out. Sherlock expects to find irritation or resignation on John’s face, but when their eyes meet, it’s warmth and affection and perhaps something more, his mouth twitching into a small smile. If Sherlock were a braver man, or a stupider one, he’d close the distance between them and crawl into John’s lap, pressing them together from groin to chest, sliding his lips against John’s, swirling their tongues together until John was all he would ever taste again. He’d kiss along John’s jaw and suck a bruise into his neck, a lasting mark to show that John was his, even if only for one night. He’d take John in hand and find out which strokes make him groan or hiss or growl, slide his lips around John and enjoy the delicious weight on his tongue, bury John deep inside him, slick and hard and gloriously filling, fitting together like two halves of a perfect whole. Sherlock’s heart beats faster at the thought, his breath coming harder, and he turns his face toward the blazing fire to hide the color rising in his cheeks.

And if he actually tried, Sherlock thinks that John might not push him away, not tonight. Might actually let him get close. Might let them have what they’ve circled around so many times. Sherlock has noticed John staring at him more and more these last couple weeks. There’s something there--not quite the flame that so often seemed to burn hot and bright between them those last few weeks before Sherlock’s fall, but perhaps a spark, a whispered hint that the flame could reignite if they fed it and gave it room to breathe.

But there isn’t room. There isn’t time. Tomorrow John will go back to Mary. They could have this one night together, but Sherlock knows that it would never be enough. He would rather die having never had John for himself--never knowing the feel of John’s stubble against his tongue, the look in John’s eyes when he presses Sherlock into the cool sheets on his bed, the sound of his name on John’s lips as Sherlock takes him apart--than have to give John up after one night, have to give him up at all.

John stands and pours them each another measure of scotch. When he hands Sherlock’s glass back, John’s fingers linger against his a second longer than necessary, and Sherlock finds it that little bit harder to remember why this is a bad idea. Before he sits, John takes off his cardigan, and Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. Is John trying to manipulate him into making a move? Sherlock has to admit that it might work. If he drinks much more, his libido might not give him much of a choice, throwing caution to the wind and insisting that they make a night of it. John must see the suspicion on his face because he says, slurring slightly, “It’s getting too warm in here.” As he unbuttons his cuffs and begins to roll up his sleeves, he adds helpfully, “Fire.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Yes, John, I may be half drunk, but I am still aware that fire generates heat.” John playfully swats at his arm before sliding back into the opposite chair, his knees falling open, swaying slightly in and out as if in invitation, and Sherlock has to look away again to maintain his resolve. It _is_ getting warm in here, he realizes, but he doesn’t know if it’s the fire or the tension that’s causing it.

John settles deeper into his chair, staring at Sherlock over his glass, the alcohol clearly relaxing him. John’s higher tolerance means that while he is likely comfortably buzzed at this point, Sherlock is more like half drunk and well on his way to being fully there.

“Tell me a story,” John says, and Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow at him. Or at least he hopes he does. He isn’t certain that he’s as completely in control of his face now as he usually is. The point must translate though, because John elaborates, “Tell me about a case or something.”

“Isn’t that your job? You’re the one with the blog,” Sherlock teases. John pouts in response, puffing out his bottom lip and slowly blinking big puppy dog eyes at Sherlock, and Sherlock can’t help but laugh and indulge him. “Any case in particular?”

“Tell me one I don’t know. Something you solved before we met. Something where you were brilliant,” he says, flashing Sherlock an easy smile. Then with a laugh, he adds, “I mean, I know you’re brilliant all the time, so that doesn’t really narrow it down.”

Sherlock smiles shyly at John’s easy praise. He regales John with the tale of a case he solved about a year before they met, a case full of murder and blackmail, government secrets and clever disguises, a late night dip in the Thames and a concluding chase through the heart of London. The alcohol singing in his bloodstream helps the words flow freely, and John sits captivated, utterly rapt by Sherlock’s story, laughing or gasping or interjecting as appropriate. By the end, Sherlock has worked up a sweat from waving his arms wildly, illustrating how he finally caught the suspect. As he wraps up the tale, he absentmindedly unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows in an effort to cool down a bit.

He doesn’t realize his mistake until, as he tries to finish his story, John’s eyes snap to his wrist, and a flash of recognition crosses his face. Sherlock immediately drops his right hand to his side, tucking it between his leg and the arm of the chair, but it’s too late. “...so Lestrade had to put him in the back of his car still soaking wet and smelling like…” he trails off at the growing look of anger on John’s face.

“What the fuck is that?” John asks, glaring at Sherlock’s hand where it’s not-quite-hidden next to his thigh.

“It’s, it’s nothing.”

“Don’t,” John seethes, pressing his lips together in a tight line. “Don’t do that.”

Panic surges through Sherlock’s body, washing away the warm glow of the scotch, leaving him cold and afraid and far too sober to have this conversation.

“I, I just…” Sherlock stutters. He meets John’s gaze and is quelled into silence by the icy chill in those deep blue eyes. Silently, John holds out his hand, tilting his head in that way he does when he’s livid and refusing him would be dangerous, staring at Sherlock until he acquiesces, hesitantly pulling the tags from his wrist and placing them in John’s upturned palm.

John looks down at them and then back at Sherlock in angry disbelief. He pushes himself to his feet, shoves the chain and tags into his pocket, and paces toward the coffee table and back again. Sherlock watches him wide-eyed, afraid of what John will say, of what this will mean for their plan, of what this will mean for their future. On his second circuit, John pauses and gestures toward Sherlock as if to say something, then shakes his head tightly and starts pacing again. A few more trips back and forth and John turns abruptly to Sherlock. “Why?” he ask, nearly a snarl, barely holding back the rage that’s threatening to overflow.

Before Sherlock can manage to find a suitable reply, John adds, “Don’t fucking lie to me, Sherlock,” and something inside Sherlock snaps. John acts as if Sherlock lies to him about everything. Yes, there have been lies on occasion. Big ones, Sherlock will admit. But they were for John’s benefit. He couldn’t know Sherlock was alive. It would have put him in too much danger. And even though it was a necessary lie, that doesn’t mean Sherlock enjoyed it. John is the one person to whom he wants to never have to lie. And ever since that night in the Underground, he’s been careful to be honest with John in all things--well, in everything except the one truth they both know but can’t speak--and he thought that John really had forgiven him, had started to trust him again. But apparently he hasn’t. He never will. He’ll always suspect that Sherlock has a hidden motive, and it makes Sherlock furious. After all this time, how can he not see that Sherlock has done _everything_ for him?

“For god’s sake, John, is that really what you think, that all I do is lie to you?” Sherlock spits out. John’s jaw twitches as he struggles to contain himself, but Sherlock presses on. “Well, if you think everything I say to you is a lie, then whatever I say is irrelevant. You have them back now, so what does it matter?”

“What does it _matter_? Sherlock, these fucking _mean_ something. Maybe not to you. But they mean something to me.” John’s fists clench, his voice rising to a near shout, and if Mrs. Hudson wasn’t awake before, she surely is now. “Everything I went through out there… And you just go and put them on like it’s nothing.” He shakes his head and continues in a quieter voice, full of cold steel and hidden danger. “Just tell me why. _Why_ , Sherlock?”

“You want me to be honest with you, John? You want me to admit it? Fine,” he thunders, throwing up his hands. “Yes, those are your identity tags. Yes, I stole them from the box you used to keep under the bed. Yes, I’ve been wearing them on my wrist for months now. But don’t ask me why. You know damn well why.”

John purses his lips and glares at Sherlock, wrinkling his forehead angrily. They stare at each other in stony silence, unwilling to be the first to break. It’s John who eventually gives in. “I _don’t_ know why. Just explain it,” he says, his words clipped and commanding.

“Don’t make me say it. Not like this.” Sherlock begs bitterly. “Not when you have to go back to Mary tomorrow.”

“What the fuck does my wife have to do with this?”

His wife. In spite of the joy, the beauty, the absolute rightness of the last few months, John is still married, and he’s still going back to his wife, his wife who tried to kill Sherlock. And even though it’s Sherlock’s stupid plan, the reminder of everything that he and John are _not_ burns through him, snapping the last of his minimal resolve.  “Everything,” he yells, getting to his feet, pushing his way into John’s space. “You _left_. I came back, and you left anyway. You left me here so that you could run off and get married and play house and pretend like you want a normal life, when we both know that’s not true. You’re just too afraid to admit it,” John’s body tenses dangerously, but Sherlock doesn’t care if John hits him now. At least he would get to feel John’s hands on him one more time before it’s all over. “You want to know why I took your tags, why I started wearing them? Because they’re all I have left of you!”

Sherlock watches triumphantly as the wave of shock crashes over John, as John realizes what Sherlock’s really saying. But as the shock ebbs away, the raw pain left in its wake tempers Sherlock’s fleeting feeling of victory. The last of his own anger fades at the look on John’s face, and his fingers twitch with the need to reach out and touch him, comfort him.

But John turns away, breathing hard and trying to maintain his control over his emotions. “No,” he says, his back still turned. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to talk to me about leaving.” John gulps down several heaving breaths before he continues even more quietly. “Two years, Sherlock. You left me here for _two years_. I know you had your bloody reasons, but _you_ left _me_ first.” His voice breaks on the last word, and it takes everything in Sherlock not to close the distance and embrace him, to wrap his long arms around John’s heaving chest until they melt together. After several long seconds, John turns and looks at him with glistening, red-rimmed eyes. “It killed me. I _died_ that day, just like you did--like I thought you did. There were so many times I nearly…” Sherlock inhales sharply, though John stops himself from actually making that admission, turning his head away again, but the weight of it still hangs heavily in the air between them.

Sherlock wants to apologize to him. To comfort him. To confess. “John…” he begins shakily, his hand involuntarily reaching out toward John. When Sherlock’s hand comes to rest on his arm, John startles and looks up at Sherlock again, really looks, and Sherlock understands what it’s like to be on the other side of his deductions. John is seeing him, perhaps for the first time, and it’s terrifying and thrilling all at once.

“Sherlock, I…” The words are there. Sherlock can practically read them on John’s lips, and he wills John to say them, as if three simple words could breathe life into Sherlock’s every dying hope. John swallows thickly and opens his mouth to try again. “I… I can’t do this.” He pivots on his heel and flees from the flat. Out the door, down the stairs, and out into the street. Away from 221B Baker Street. Away from the feelings he doesn’t want to face. Away from Sherlock.

Sherlock’s knees give out then, his body finally collapsing from the ebb and flow of tension, and he barely manages to twist in time so that his arse lands on the coffee table instead of the floor. He scrubs his fingers across his face and through his hair, tugging on his dark curls in frustration. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to have had one nice last night at Baker Street together, enjoying each other’s company, _almost_ like it had been before, and then tomorrow John would have gone back to Mary, they would have retrieved Mary’s files from Magnussen, and John would have gone on with his happy, domesticated life while Sherlock tried his best to find his way back to the comfort he had once found in solitude.

But now it’s ruined. Now John is gone. Again. He’s left Sherlock once more, and Sherlock isn’t sure he’s going to come back this time. In retrospect, he can see why wearing John’s tags would make John angry, but it’s been his only source of solace for months now and Sherlock can’t bring himself to regret ever putting them on. The caress of metal against his wrist, warmed by his own body heat, has been the solid, steady presence he’s lacked without John here. It’s calmed him, strengthened him, grounded him. It has served as an ever-present reminder of what--of _whom_ \--he’s done this all for.

Sherlock knows it’s ridiculously sentimental, but when it comes to John, he’s had to accept that he can’t shut that part of himself down anymore, no matter how much he wishes he could. So the alternative, for tonight at least, is to sleep. He pushes himself to standing and makes for his bedroom, collapsing on to the mattress without bothering to undress. He curls tightly in on himself and doesn’t miss the irony that this is how he ended up here in the first place--curling up in bed, fully dressed, after John’s wedding, wrapping that chain around his wrist for the first time.

He prays for sleep, for a respite from his loneliness and self-loathing, from the crushing weight of a John-less life, but sleep doesn’t come.

 

\------------------------------

 

John stumbles down the stairs after a mostly-sleepless night to find Sherlock curled up on the sofa. He hadn’t been there last night when John had finally come back to the flat after a long walk and a lot of thought. Unsure if Sherlock is legitimately sleeping or just stroppily moping about, John is unwilling to disturb him either way and slips into the kitchen to set about quietly making coffee. He pours a second cup and steels himself to attempt an apology for last night.

He approaches the sofa and softly calls Sherlock’s name, but the detective’s curled form doesn’t move. John observes the rhythmic rise and fall of Sherlock’s breathing and the relaxed shape of those ever-busy hands and decides that Sherlock really is sleeping after all. He sets both cups on the coffee table and seats himself next to them, his knees pressing gently into the sofa near Sherlock’s back. He reaches out a hand to gently shake Sherlock awake, hesitating before he makes contact, uncertain whether or not the touch--or even his presence--would be welcome. No, you wanted to apologize, he tells himself, don’t back out now. He closes the distance and gives Sherlock’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Sherlock?” In response, Sherlock snuggles deeper into the cushions, and a small burst of affection surges through John. “Sherlock, wake up,” he says quietly. “I made coffee.”

Sherlock turns his head toward the sound of John’s voice. His eyes still haven’t opened, as he struggles in the hazy land between sleep and waking, his face soft and open and innocent in a way it rarely if ever is when he’s awake, and John fights to resist the urge to brush a finger across that unwrinkled nose, to cup his palm to that unclenched jaw, to press a chaste kiss to that uncreased brow. He’s tired of dancing around this. He realized last night, once he got over his initial shock and anger and hurt, just how badly he and Sherlock need each other, how badly they have missed one another. And most importantly he realized that _he_ was the one Sherlock was talking about the day he came home from hospital; John is the someone that Sherlock loves.

Now it’s time to right their mistakes, and as much as John hates having to talk about his feelings, if it will fix this, fix them, he’ll soldier through it, bolstered by the revelation that he isn’t alone in what he feels for Sherlock.

Another light squeeze of his shoulder, and Sherlock’s awake now. When he opens his eyes and realizes that it’s John who has woken him, he huffs and turns his head back toward the cushions, away from John. Still in a bad mood apparently. “Sherlock…” John begins again.

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock says tonelessly, his voice muffled from where he’s pressed his face into the rear of the sofa. “Just leave it.” He flexes and wiggles his arm, throwing off John’s hand, which he hadn’t realized was still on Sherlock’s shoulder.

John sighs heavily. “No, look…”

“I said leave it,” Sherlock snaps. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Pity?” John asks incredulously. “I don’t… That’s not… Look, can you just turn over so we can have an actual bloody conversation?” When Sherlock makes no effort to move, John snaps, “Damn it, Sherlock. I’m trying to apologize. I acted like a complete arse last night.” He pushes to his feet and begins to pace as he continues heatedly. “I don’t approve of you taking my things. Especially… well, especially something like that…” His fingers flex over and over as he battles with himself to keep going, to push through his discomfort and actually have this conversation. He risks a glance at Sherlock, still resolutely turned away. It’s like speaking to a brick wall. “But I understand why you did it. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing if the situation was reversed.” Deep breath. “I… I actually have done--pretty much--the same thing.”

Finally, something gets a reaction. Sherlock turns his head sharply, aiming at the ceiling rather than John, but it’s still an improvement over the back of the sofa. It boosts John’s confidence and encourages him to keep going. “You know the, um, the scarf that you, you were wearing… the day we met? The short blue one? I may have… taken it with me, when I moved out.” Even though Sherlock isn’t looking at him, John has to turn away, swallowing down the hard lump in his throat, before he can go on.  “And I, uh… I held it when I went to sleep, sometimes.” All the time, he thinks. Every single night for the first 8 months, and at least every other night thereafter until he ended up with Mary in bed beside of him instead of the ghost of the man he had loved. “I snuck it back into your room when you came back.”

“I know,” Sherlock says quietly.

“You know?” John asks, turning around, half shocked and half relieved.

“It smells like you,” Sherlock tells him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

John forces his feet to carry him back to the sofa, and he resumes his seat on the coffee table, automatically reaching out to place a hand on Sherlock’s arm again, as if holding on to him will make it all easier. The strange thing is that it does somehow. “Can I apologize now?”

Sherlock finally turns to face him, shifting until he is curled toward John rather than away from him. Jostled by the movement, John’s hand falls to the sofa, and he moves to pull it back, but Sherlock reaches out and grabs his wrist. He guides John’s hand back to his shoulder--the one that’s now turned upward--and nods for John to continue.

“I’m sorry. About last night. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I shouldn’t have left.” He squeezes Sherlock’s arm gently and forces himself to keep going. “I had no right to bring up what you did before. I know you did it because you thought you had to. And I know it’s supposed to be ‘forgive and forget’, but it isn’t that easy. I did forgive you, and I meant it. It’s just… hard to forget, you know? What I went through when you were gone. How much it... hurt.”

John swallows uncomfortably. Talking like this makes his throat seize up, as if his body is forcibly trying to stop him from saying anything that leaves him too vulnerable. He breathes deeply and wills his body to relax. He needs to say this, to put himself out there a little more.“You left. And I spent every minute wishing you’d come back.” Deep breaths, in and out. “And then you did. _Somehow_ you bloody well came back. And then _I_ left.” Inhale, exhale, relax. You can do this, he reminds himself. “I’m… I’m tired of leaving. Both of us have left far too many times. Sometimes it feels like all we do anymore. You left to save us all. I left because I was angry. I left to get married. You left my wedding. I leave after every sodding case. I’m tired of it.” He finally lets his eyes find Sherlock’s. “I don’t want to leave anymore.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches, and his gaze roves back and forth over John’s face as if trying to deduce the implications of his words. “John, I... “ He stutters to a stop, blinking rapidly as his brain works overtime.

John can’t help but grin. It’s not every day that he gets to render Sherlock speechless after all.

Sherlock tries again. “But… what about…”

“I’ll still go through with this plan of yours if you think that’s best. I’ll go to your parents’ house and tell her I forgive her.” His jaw tenses at the thought, but he forces himself not to dwell on her and her betrayal right now. “I know we need to do this. It’ll buy us time to figure out…” Us, he wants to say. This. How I can finally come back home. Instead he says, “...everything else.” John lets his hand slide up Sherlock’s shoulder and come to rest on his neck, not gripping or caressing, just resting there, grounding them to each other. His heart beats in his throat. “Okay?”

Sherlock continues to watch him, and John forces himself not to look away from that piercing gaze. Eventually Sherlock gives the slightest nod. “Okay,” he says quietly, and a smile slides onto John’s face. That one word has made him happier than anything has in months. Years, maybe. There’s still the looming weight of what needs to be done--today, tomorrow, for months to come probably--but there’s a bubble of hope for the future, too. A promise that someday this will all be right. That everything will have been worth it because they will finally have what they should have taken for themselves so long ago.

“Okay,” he confirms with a nod. “Now drink your coffee, and seeing as it _is_ Christmas after all, let’s open some presents.” He presses a cup into Sherlock’s hands, as Sherlock pushes himself to sitting. John moves to stand when something catches his eye. He hadn’t noticed it before when Sherlock had been lying down because his mess of curls had mostly hidden it from view. “Sherlock?” he asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Is that my jumper?”

Sherlock visibly blanches before he can school his response. “Oh, so it is. I was quite tired last night. Must have just reached for the nearest approximation of a pillow without realizing what it was.”

Considering that there’s a pillow on the end of the sofa where Sherlock’s feet had been and that John’s cardigan had been on the arm of his chair last night, John easily sees through the lie, but after the way he reacted about the tags last night, it’s no surprise that Sherlock is trying to hide the fact that he nicked yet another of John’s things, though it painfully twists something inside of John that Sherlock both needs these small comforts and feels that he has to hide that need. No more, he tells himself. “It’s really fine,” he says to Sherlock, and as he walks past, he lets his hand brush lightly over Sherlock’s hair in a gesture he hopes is reassuring. Judging by the small hum that escapes Sherlock’s mouth, he thinks it was probably successful.

John returns with a small stack of gifts for Sherlock who has also materialized a few crisply wrapped packages for John. They sit comfortably close on the sofa, not quite touching but contently within each other’s space, as they open their gifts. For  Sherlock, there’s a new eyepiece for his microscope, a leather-bound journal for recording the results of his experiments, and a model of the medial section of a honeybee, while John receives a new scarf, which makes him laugh in light of this morning’s conversation, and a book on memoir writing.

“Is this your way of reminding me that you hate my writing?” John teases.

Sherlock chuckles and shakes his head. “No, I… I know you’ve thought about doing something _more_ with your… with _our_ stories.” Sherlock’s use of _our_ makes John happy in a way he can’t quite describe. “Yes, there are writing tips, but there’s an entire section at the end on publication.” John sits in stunned silence that goes on long enough for Sherlock to nervously add, “Did I… Did I get something wrong?”

John shakes himself from his stupor. “No, you git, you didn’t get it wrong. _How_ did you even know that I had thought about this? I mean, it’s just something I was toying with. I haven’t even really decided if I want to try it or not. I haven’t told _anyone_ \--leave it to you to deduce it anyway. You’re brilliant, you know that?” The shy smile that creeps across Sherlock’s face makes John want to take Sherlock in his arms and kiss him breathless so that he’ll know how truly amazing he is. But he can’t. Not yet. Not with his marriage and his wife’s betrayal still hanging over them. “Thank you,” he says instead, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and hugging him to his side. It’s intended to be a quick gesture of appreciation and affection--John intended to give him a quick squeeze and let him go--but once Sherlock is pressed to his side, John can’t seem to bring himself to pull them apart, especially once Sherlock’s head finds his shoulder, his thick curls tickling at the patch of exposed skin above the collar of John’s t-shirt. Even this little bit of contact is so comforting that John lets his head fall to the side, pressing his cheek into the top of Sherlock’s head, wishing that they could stay like this all day instead of having to face his farce of a marriage.

With a heavy sigh, he lets his arm drop from Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock sits up. “Well, should we get ready to go? Might as well get this over with.”  They smile sadly at each other, and Sherlock nods. Just like that, it’s back to reality--well, as much as a life full of consulting detectives and criminal masterminds and assassin wives with secret identities can be considered reality. John heads upstairs to get dressed.

When he comes back downstairs, Sherlock is already dressed and waiting in the sitting room, looking as gorgeous as ever in all black. It’s perhaps a bit grim for Christmas, but for _this_ Christmas, it’s probably appropriate. “I almost forgot,” John says, stepping in front of Sherlock as he heads for the door. “I have one more gift for you.” He pulls it from his pocket, and Sherlock’s eyes go wide. John places the chain around Sherlock’s neck and gives a small tug on the tags before he lets go. “If you’re going to wear them, wear them properly,” he says with a commanding nod.

Sherlock’s hand clasps the tags, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the engraving. When he still hasn’t said anything for several long moments, John chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s just for now, okay? A promise that when all this with Mary is over, we’ll figure this out, you and I. Then you won’t need them anymore.” He flashes Sherlock a small grin. “Now tuck them inside your shirt so that no one will see, and let’s go.” He starts down the stairs, and Sherlock does as he’s told, slipping the tags inside his shirt and ensuring the chain is hidden by his collar, before he follows John down the steps, biting his lip to keep from smiling too brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue for this fic is entirely optional. If you want to leave it at happy and hopeful, stop here. 
> 
> If, however, you want a bit more angst, click onward to the next chapter. Remember that this fic is meant to fit within the existing canon, so if you know what's still to come in His Last Vow that hasn't been covered here, you probably have an idea of where the angst is headed. Don't say I didn't warn you.


	2. Epilogue

“And then what?” John asks, knowing the answer already.

“Who knows?” Sherlock says, unable to meet John’s gaze, unable to say the lie to his face. John has to turn away, afraid that if he looks at Sherlock he might break. Because he knows that what Sherlock really means is _nothing_. There is nothing after this six month mission. John hasn’t been explicitly told as much, but there is an overwhelming air of finality to this discussion. _The last conversation I’ll have with John Watson_ , Sherlock had said--it wouldn’t take a consulting detective to figure that one out. Sherlock is being shipped back off to god knows where on a suicide mission, and once again John can’t follow him. It’s the roof of Bart’s all over again, but at least this time they both know what’s coming. Not that that makes it any easier to say goodbye.

They were supposed to have had time. John had forgiven Mary, or appeared to at least, in accordance with Sherlock’s plan. They were supposed to have retrieved the documents from Magnussen and then figured out from there how to deal with Mary once and for all. And then… Well, John can’t let himself think about what would have happened next, not now that it’s been ripped away from him, from them, by a single gunshot wound in a newspaper magnate’s head.

“John,” Sherlock says, and the way his name sounds falling so softly from that clever mouth nearly tears John in two. He forces himself to turn back to Sherlock, pursing his lips to try to keep everything in. “There’s something I should say. I’ve _meant_ to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

John freezes, unsure of whether or not he wants to hear what comes next. His heart craves the words, wants to pull them from Sherlock’s throat, bury them deep inside himself in a place no one else can ever reach. But his head says not here, not now. Not in front of my lying wife who has managed to take you away from me after all. Not when I can’t show you how much those words mean to me. Not when I’ll have to stay here living with them while you’re out there dying for them.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John cringes expectantly. “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

John laughs because it’s ridiculous. Because he’s relieved to not have to have this conversation with the man he loves and then return home with a wife he doesn’t even know. Because ending this with a laugh seems infinitely better than ending it with tears.

“It’s not,” John replies, still giggling.

Sherlock smiles and shrugs. “It was worth a try.”

“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”

“I think it could work.” Sherlock’s smile fades to something sadder, sweeter, and John tries his best to keep smiling for the both of them, to keep up this charade. But even with all this pretending that they’re just friends, that they’re just saying goodbye for now and not goodbye forever, John is still taken aback when Sherlock extends his hand, the gesture so far removed from what John really wants that it takes him a moment to remember how he’s supposed to respond. “To the very best of times, John.”

When he does finally clasp Sherlock’s hand, there’s something hard and cold between their palms, and it sends a familiar tremor down his leg, his knee threatening to give out on him. No, John wants to say. You keep them. You need them more than I do. _A promise_ , he had said when he placed them around Sherlock’s neck. A promise that they would be together when this was done. But now it is done, really and truly done, and there is no together, not for them.

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand as long as he’s allowed, refusing to let go of this, of the hope of all they could have been, _should_ have been, but then Sherlock is pulling back, walking away, climbing the stairs to his doom, and all John is left with is the cold despair settling into his stomach and the matching chill of the identity tags clutched tightly in his fist as he watches Sherlock leave him one last time.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
